January Mistletoe
by Aurora West
Summary: Taffyta's not sure that mistletoe even counts in January.


Disclaimer: _Wreck-It Ralph_ is the property of the Walt Disney Company.

Author's note: Have one more Christmassy King Candy/Taffyta fic! This one is based around the prompt 'mistletoe', if that's not obvious. Also - the other ship mentioned in here is dedicated entirely to Windsett.

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Taffyta flexes her fingers as she clasps her hands behind her back, the dull, indistinct murmur of voices from the bar washing over her as she stands in the hallway, staring at Tapper's wall of fame. Though it's dim there, and she can't see much of most of the pictures but light glinting off the glass in the frames, she knows she won't find the person she's looking for, knows that his picture was taken down long ago.

She also knows that he's standing behind her, having approached her more or less silently, the noise from the bar drowning out the jingle that accompanies all his movements. But she doesn't need to hear him to know he's there. "You know, Tapper doesn't put the _really _famous people up here," he says.

With a smile, Taffyta says, "_Really_."

"Mm hm."

Her smile inches wider, though she continues to face the wall. "So you're saying…that's why I'm not up here?"

Fingers brush along her shoulder, straighten the collar of her jacket, and fall away. "Exactly." The smirk is audible in his voice. "_Plus_ he doesn't put the really beautiful women up here either, so you know, two strikes against you."

She can't help but grin at that, and she finally turns around. One of King Candy's eyebrows is arched and his fingers are hooked into the lapels of his tailcoat, and when their eyes meet he smiles, that crooked smile that makes her heart skip every time she sees it. And it's been years, of course Taffyta knows exactly how long, knows the first time that he kissed her and told her he loved her was eleven years ago but it doesn't matter. That smile, the way he looks at her, the way he laughs the jokes he tells the way his hands grip the steering wheel of his kart the angle of his body as he takes the sharpest turns on the Royal Raceway—none of those things have ever lost their potency, none of the _millions _of things that she loves about him have ever stopped affecting her the way they did the very first time.

"I thought you were going home," she says, raising her own eyebrow.

His crown glints in the hallway's low light as he tilts his head slightly. "I was." Then he shrugs. "I changed my mind."

She adjusts his bow tie, even though it doesn't need it. She just likes the intimacy of the gesture, the fact that his body heat has leeched into all his clothing, that he wouldn't allow anyone else this close. "Well, I guess I don't mind the company," she says, staring at the neat knot of his tie for a moment before looking up to his eyes. Then, with a smirk, she adds, "Candlehead left with Surge half an hour ago."

There's a sudden upsurge in volume from the bar, then the sound of a glass shattering, but neither King Candy nor Taffyta flinch. Whatever distraction is going on out there, he takes the opportunity to sidle closer to her, and one of his hands is suddenly on her hip, warm and sure and fitted to the curve of her body perfectly, like they were programmed to go together even though they weren't.

The spark the force the magnetic pull between them doesn't even give her a choice, she's closer to him and she doesn't remember moving, their faces close enough now that she can feel his breath.

She's really glad he came back.

"Candlehead and Surge," he says musingly, though his eyes are locked on hers. "There's a…_shocking _couple."

Which makes her giggle despite the fact that she's heard the joke a million times. "Oh, I don't know," she says. "Don't you see the _sparks_ between them?"

He chuckles and his other hand fits itself to her hip, and her heart pounds like it always does when they're close, like she knows his is pounding too, and there's a blaze in his eyes as he looks at her that makes her feel like she's burnished gleaming gold.

Somehow he has the ability to make her feel like they're the only two people in the world, that the rest of the world doesn't exist at _all_, and she knows it's silly, knows it's because she's programmed permanently as a twenty-three year old woman and because she's emotional and dramatic, but it doesn't matter, it _doesn't _because…she sees the same thing in his eyes.

"Well to be _perfectly _honest," he murmurs, "it's hard to see anything except you."

He says it with a smirk, but she knows he means it.

Then he surprises her and adds, "…though there was…_one _thing I did notice in here tonight." When she furrows her brow in an unspoken question, he removes a hand from her hip and points upwards. "Looks like Tapper forgot to take down that mistletoe when he put away the Christmas decorations."

Taffyta blinks, then cranes her neck upwards. She wishes he'd put his hand back on her hip, the fabric of her dress is moulded to its shape, her skin, bones code _soul_ are moulded to his shape, but—he doesn't, because after she looks up, spots the dusty mistletoe hung in the hallway, she feels his fingers brush her face lightly, and she looks at him again as he tucks her hair behind her ear, then trails his fingers across her jawline, a ghost of a touch but it sets off a glittering blaze through her whole body.

Somehow she makes her lips curve upwards into a smile, though all she wants to do is feel them pressed against his. "Does mistletoe even _count _in January?" she asks.

"Probably not," he replies, his hand on her shoulder, then her back, then settling onto her hip at last, where he curls his fingers into her and pulls her closer so their bodies are touching now. "But the thing _is_, Taff," he murmurs, "when have I ever needed to be under mistletoe to kiss you?"

She closes her eyes, her hands on the back of his neck, and leans into him.

And then something stops her, and she opens her eyes again, holds his gaze, and what she sees there turns her stomach into a stardust explosion of fluttering wings that press up against her heart and her lungs. It's the same feeling she always gets. It's the same _look_ he always gives her.

There's no need to answer that question. Not out loud anyway. She closes her eyes again and kisses him, softly at first and then harder, his lips making her feel like he's opening her up, folding her open layer by layer until there's nothing left to hide and the simplest barest _purest _part of her is there and burning and she does the same to him, she _knows _she does the same to him because that's the look in his eyes, that's the way he holds onto her.

And for that eternal moment, for every eternal moment where she can't feel the world around her, everything else really _does _stop existing, and it's just him and her without their feet on the ground, even—because just like mistletoe, they don't need it.


End file.
